


only then i am clean

by mwestbelle



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: BDSM, Bad Sex, Hurt/Comfort, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Safeword Use, Sexual Dysfunction, Sexual Experimentation, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-11
Updated: 2015-02-16
Packaged: 2018-02-20 19:31:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2440295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mwestbelle/pseuds/mwestbelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky aches. Things are objectively getting better, but there's something he's still yearning for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written to fill [this prompt](http://capkink.dreamwidth.org/1349.html?thread=274757) at capkink. Thanks to all those who have encouraged me, and I hope that it's worth the wait!
> 
> This fic will contain kink scenes going badly, safewords, dealing with trauma, and other sex-related issues. I tried to start with a good baseline of tags, but more will be added as the story continues. Please take care of yourself, and feel free to [message me](http://villainsexuale.tumblr.com/ask) to get specific details.
> 
> Title is from "Take me to Church" by Hozier, which is the theme song for this fic hands down. [Listen to it.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MYSVMgRr6pw)

It's an ache that never goes away. Bucky is used to aches by now, but this one is different from the rest. It's not the bone-deep soreness in his ruined shoulder that spreads to his spine as time wears on. Not the familiar sharp stab of hunger, low in his gut. This pain is formless, uncentered. Sometimes it seems to echo in his hollow chest, sometimes it pounds in his head. Sometimes, shamefully, it's in his groin, a throbbing that makes him sick with wanting and sick to his stomach at the same time.

He wonders if it's something they put inside him. Steve is quick to blame Hydra for everything that's wrong with him, but Bucky isn't so sure that he wasn't wrong to begin with. It seems like too much; like you couldn't do that to a person who was good. He doesn't think that they could have made Steve act like that, feel like this.

Steve says he can't count the things that happened when he was the Winter Soldier, which means the first time Steve touched him was when he rested his hand on the back of Bucky's shoulder as they walked back into the apartment. They'd had dinner with Sam and Nat, and it had been overwhelming, but Bucky used chopsticks and smiled and didn't have to run to the bathroom to vomit. Steve was laughing on the way back, and he reached out and touched Bucky. Bucky felt it go all the way through his body, like an electric shock, and he went stiff. Steve had removed his hand with a quiet curse and apology; Bucky wanted to fall to his knees and beg Steve to touch him again, and he wanted to crawl out the window and never get within arm's reach of another human being. But he swallowed both impulses down, bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself from crying out in frustration.

The first time Bucky touches Steve, when it counts, is nearly a month later. Steve is reading on the couch; Bucky doesn't remember him being so much of a bookworm, before, but maybe it was for lack of opportunity and not lack of interest. Maybe it has to do with his notebook, all the things he's trying to recapture. Or maybe Bucky's memory is patchy and shoddy, as always.

Steve is sitting on the couch, and he's reading. Bucky is sitting on the floor next to him. He watches the television on mute, taking in the bright colors and smiling people with perfect skin and teeth. They don't have what the screen stars in his day had, in his opinion. He looks back at Steve without moving his head, but Steve isn't watching him. He's focused on the book, as though Bucky isn't even there. As though there isn't a threat less than a foot away from him.

Bucky bites the inside of his cheek, and slowly, he reaches out and rests his hand on Steve's ankle. HIs stomach roils, but a quietness spreads through his chest. He exhales hard, but he doesn't move his hand. Steve looks down at him. 

"You okay, Buck?" He makes it sound almost bland, like this isn't momentous, but Bucky still knows him well enough to read his eyes. He can see the hope there.

Bucky nods, then swallows hard to clear his throat so he can speak. "Yeah. Fine."

"Good." Steve smiles, briefly but stunningly, then turns back to his book. Bucky holds onto his ankle until he can't stand it anymore and gets up to head for the bathroom. He turns on the cold water and lets it run while he breathes. 

It felt so right, to be there on the ground beside Steve. Like a loyal dog. _No._ Bucky cups his hands under the faucet and splashes water on his face. _Like his right hand. Like someone Steve could rely on._ Just as loyal, just as devoted, but treasured. Trusted. Things that Bucky doesn't deserve from Steve, not anymore if he ever truly had. He isn't sure anymore. Steve treats him like he deserves it, but Bucky suspects Steve views their relationship through rose-colored glasses. He was never inside Bucky's head; from what Bucky has salvaged, he isn't sure it's a place Steve would want to be.

When he comes out of the bathroom, Steve isn't on the couch anymore. He's in the kitchen, and Bucky fights disappointment. He wants to get down on the floor again, but here it would be obvious. Painfully obvious that he's full of bizarre desires that he can't seem to shake. So he goes back to the living room and plants himself in the space he abandoned. The television is still on, and he stares at it, watching a man missing an arm clean his house. His family laughs and smiles.

He thinks of it as a mission. Instead of a target, he has a goal. His mission is to touch Steve as many times as possible. He starts small, timing his reach into the popcorn bowl to coincide with Steve's so the sides of their hands brush together. It's such a small thing, but it tingles all the way up his arm. Faux-accidental touches are easiest. He doesn't know if he can recapture the daring of putting his hand on Steve's ankle, making a deliberate gesture of wanting. He settles for leaning across Steve to get the remote, shoulder grazing against Steve's chest, and feet bumping together under the kitchen table.

His instincts are still sharp. He can tell that Steve notices, that these little "unplanned" touches aren't fooling him. But Steve says nothing. He makes it even easier to touch him, keeping his body language open, telegraphing every move. It's after a day of casual brushes that Bucky feels high and heady from it and finally lets his knee rest against Steve's. It's a solid press, warm even through the protection of jeans and sweatpants, and he can feel his heart pounding in his chest.

"Bucky."

Bucky tries to jerk away, but Steve anticipates him. His big hand comes down on Bucky's knee, holding him in place. Bucky doesn't know whether to run or roll over and expose his belly. He flinches, but stops trying to get out of the way.

"Sorry," Steve says. His voice is quiet, speaking sotto voce even though they're alone in the room. It takes a moment for Bucky to realize that it's _soothing_. Steve is talking to him like he's a wounded animal, trying not to spook him. He's not sure if he's irritated or grateful, but that's the story of his life now. He's never sure what he feels, what he should feel - constantly torn between extremes. "I just...you can touch me, Buck. Whenever and however you want, okay? It's fine."

_It's not you I'm worried about,_ Bucky wants to say. Steve is the one thing he's certain of, the one purely good thing in his life. But the words stick in his throat; the last thing he wants to do is admit that he's even more broken than Steve thinks, shattered in new and unexpected ways. He swallows hard and sets his hand on top of Steve's. He can feel the ridges of tendons in the back of Steve's hand, the warmth of his skin, the slight tickle of fine hairs. He forces himself to say only, "Thank you."

And he is grateful.

*

He isn't prepared for it when Steve kisses him, which is stupid. It isn't as though Steve has ever been especially subtle. He telegraphs every move in a fight, and he's never been built for stealth. Bucky's seen him do it, he...remembers, sometimes, echoes of reports that he now suspects were about Steve. He can lay low for a while, even infiltrate a base, but that's never going to be who he is. Bucky loves that, but it means he's got no excuse. He should have been reading the signs; he should have had a plan in place long before Steve ducked down and pressed their lips together.

Perhaps he's been lulled into a false sense of security. Steve's been full of easy touches, letting Bucky rest a hand on his knee or lean against his shoulder, like it's all perfectly normal. Bucky has even been able to respond in kind, occasionally. He does shy away when he feels particuarly prickly, and Steve never pursues him. But they've _touched_ each other, loosely held hands in front of the TV at night and once after they walked to the store together and Bucky picked out what kind of cereal he likes best, Steve even asked if he could hug him. Bucky agreed, and he was immediately engulfed in Steve's arms, pressed close to the firm breadth of Steve's chest. All he can smell, all he can sense is _Steve_. He is overwhelmed by it, drowning in it, and as soon as it began it's over. Steve is stepping back, smiling, as though he hasn't ruined Bucky entirely.

Bucky dreams about that hug. He dreams about _more_ , about the hug being just the beginning. Sometimes in his dreams, when Steve pulls him close, they are suddenly naked and what he senses is miles of bare skin touching bare skin. Sometimes he wakes up hard and aching. Sometimes he wakes up and vomits.

He's getting better at smiling. It happens without intention now; he just _smiles_ , and he knows, distantly, that this is what being happy feels like. In the moment, it just feels like a lightness he'd almost forgotten. He's smiling when Steve kisses him. Laughing, maybe, standing next to Steve in their little kitchen (he's not sure when he started thinking of Steve's apartment as _theirs_ , but it is, unequivocally), and Steve looks down at him, and then he moving. There's plenty of time for Bucky to duck out of the way, block him, go for the throat or the gut and take him down. He doesn't move.

Steve's lips are soft and dry. They barely brush against Bucky's before he's pulling back, watching Bucky through his thick, dark lashes. Bucky can see his pink tongue dart out to lick them. "Was that okay?"

"I didn't expect it," Bucky says. He can see Steve start to frown, and he reaches forward to close his hand around Steve's wrist. It still thrills him sometime, how easy it's become to _touch_ , even to grab. Steve never reacts to him like he's a threat. "But I liked it."

"Yeah?" When Steve gets that sheepish smile, that's when he seems most real to Bucky. Bucky can see the shadow of who he used to be in it. 

Bucky runs his thumb over Steve's wrist, because he can. He wonders what it would feel like to have Steve's big hand closed around his own wrists, pinning him down. A hot rush goes through him, and he looks down, hoping that Steve can't see the color in his cheeks. "Real nice. About time, right?"

It's not exactly a stab in the dark; his dreams are way too detailed to be entirely inventions, and he does have a few memories that seem too sharp to be remembered dreams. Delicate bones, skin so pale it was practically translucent. Flushed cheeks and a stormy frown. Hot kisses in the dark, a slick alleyway that no gentleman would have brought a pretty girl too. He knows he's scored a hit when Steve blushes. "No, of course not, Buck, I haven't...I wasn't just waiting around for...I'm _glad_ , obviously, but-"

"Shut up, okay?" Bucky feels bold, high on it, and he leans in to kiss Steve back. His mouth isn't as dry this time.

Steve smiles this time, eyes still closed when Bucky pulls back. "Okay." 

They don't kiss again that night, but he thinks Steve leans in a little closer when they sit beside each other on the couch. Natasha set up their Netflix queue, and Steve hasn't seemed too inclined to depart from her suggestions so far. Bucky has no strong preferences. He isn't always able to focus for the entire time, though it's getting better. He likes watching movies together because of the excuse to sit in Steve's presence, feel his warmth. Now he realizes that maybe he doesn't need an excuse anymore.

He shifts so his shoulder tucks in under Steve's arm. They're both big, bulky, and it's not like he can make himself any smaller, but he craves the feeling of being encompassed. He still can't forget that hug. Steve is still for a few minutes, and Bucky can practically hear his thoughts grinding away in his brain. He wants to tell him to stop, to move away and give up, but then Steve is draping his arm around Bucky's shoulders. It's a casual gesture, even one that friends might share, but it soothes the ache in Bucky always feels in his chest a little. He lets his head fall against Steve's shoulder and closes his eyes. Maybe this is enough. Maybe each tender touch will lay one on top of the other, building into something that will eventually fill the void inside him. 

Even as he thinks it, he knows that it isn't true.


	2. Chapter 2

It feels foolish, to have believed if even for a short while that he could be fixed. And now, on top of the wanting inside him, there's fresh guilt.

Steve doesn't seem to know. Bucky is grateful, because he's done his best to keep Steve from knowing. He smiles, and he laughs, and they kiss softly and sweetly. Steve gets a pink flush to his cheeks and at the tips of his ears every time, and it's so painful to know that Bucky is letting him down again. Bucky is grateful, and he is furious. 

"We're doing good," he hears Steve say on the phone, when Steve doesn't think he's paying attention. He can hear the little smile that Steve has to be making. "Real good."

He wonders if Natasha would know better if she were here. She's always had a gift for seeing through the bullshit, and he knows that right now he must reek of it. Every shy touch, every gentle kiss is a lie, one more to add to a ledger that will never be clean. Steve tells him that he can't blame himself for what HYDRA made him do, as though he wouldn't do the exact same thing. As though he wouldn't spend every day of his life trying to balance the scales. Steve could do it, maybe. He's good in his core, where Bucky is damaged. Weak.

The dreams are the worst part. Without them, he might be able to ignore the ache and appreciate the scraps of warmth he's managed to hoard away. If Steve knew what his dreams had become, he would know that Bucky's kiss was rotten.

It's the change in their waking relationship that's made the dreams change, he knows, but he can't bring himself to turn away from Steve's kisses, to ignore a welcoming arm inviting him to cuddle close. He's too selfish, so instead of a dream of warm, bare skin (and god, he longs for the days when that seemed unbearably erotic), he dreams of pain, of bruises and suffering. In his dreams, he stays on his knees and does as he is told, and nothing is too bright or too loud. None of these things are strangers to him, but as a weapon they were of no consequence to him. They never made him hard, left him panting in bed with his flesh and metal fists clenching the sheets.

He thinks of how hard Steve has worked to teach him to _choose_ , to be a person and not a machine, and his stomach twists at how disappointed Steve would be to know that he craves giving it all up again.

It's not that he wants to go back. He has no desire to return to HYDRA, if there even is any HYDRA to return to. (Steve and his friends have certainly done their best to make sure there isn't, but Bucky is too intimately familiar with how they burrow in deep to be convinced that it's over.) But he yearns for the simplicity of obedience, the easy satisfaction of _knowing_ he's done well. 

It's hard to know, now. Steve is easy and open with affection and approval, but Bucky isn't sure that he can trust his praise. He tries to make them dinner, but he gets distracted by black and white footage of war on TV and the water in the pot boils away to nothing, leaving the metal scorched and the smoke detector screeching. Steve opens all the windows and sets the ruined pot out on the fire escape.

"It's good that you tried," Steve says once the smoke has cleared. He wraps his arm around Bucky's shoulder and squeezes. But he knows that _trying_ means nothing. There are successful missions, and there are failures. He has never failed in his mission before, but he's seen (participated in) the punishments of those who _tried_.

He never knows if what he's done is right. He's overwhelmed daily by choices, with no direction on which is correct. He's gotten more comfortable with fairly meaningless ones, like what he wants to have for dinner or which TV channel they should watch. But some days even two different shirts can be paralyzing, and those days make Steve's constant _options_ terrifying.

"Do you want to meet Sam for lunch?" Steve asks. Bucky says yes, because he knows that Steve will want to see Sam, and because the idea doesn't pain him in any way. He feels like he's no better than an animal sometimes, instinctively shying away from pain. There's very little he would deny Steve, even if it did cause him discomfort.

They walk to meet Sam in a deli a few blocks away. Bucky knows he's been in a vehicle since he came back to himself, but he doesn't remember it well. His world has a radius that extends from Steve's apartment, though his and Steve's idea of walking distance is vastly different from a normal person's, as Sam likes to remind them.

The first time they were here, Bucky spent too much time staring at the menu. They'd gone after any potential lunch rush, late into the afternoon, but the people around him, moving from the door to the line to the counter to the tables or the door again like clockwork made him feel lost and anxious, like he was missing some crucial part. It made it difficult for him to focus on the menu, and once he realized that they were all old-fashioned deli meats and Steve would be expecting him to pick the right one, whichever sandwich the Bucky _he_ knew would have ordered...well. They ended up taking their sandwiches to-go.

They've been back a few times now, and Bucky's doing better. The crowd doesn't bother him as much, but he orders the same thing every time. It streamlines the process, and Steve smiled, once, when he bit into his pastrami on rye, so he hopes that maybe he's made the right choice.

Sam has already saved them a table, lounging in his chair with the newspaper. "You boys catch the game last night?"

"Bits and pieces." Steve sits across from him, and Bucky takes the side. "Not much of a showing, if you ask me."  
Sam folds the paper and grins over at him. "Depends on which team you're rooting for, Rogers."

The familiar patter of their banter is soothing to Bucky now. It's easy to fall into the rhythm of it, and he'd be happy to sit here and listen.

But neither of them will leave him out for long. Sam turns to him, eyebrow arched. "What about you, Bucky?" 

Bucky crunches his pickle. "Doesn't draw my attention, honestly."

"Fair enough, man, fair enough." Sam always takes Bucky at his word. Steve tries, he knows that he tries, but it's impossible to miss the thread of doubt in those damn big blue eyes. He's so worried about Bucky making decisions and having opinions; he doesn't always trust it when Bucky just doesn't have a preference. Bucky hates letting him down.

He's able to focus on his sandwich for a while after that. He pipes up whenever Sam looks at him expectantly, tries to get in early and seem more like a person having a conversation than some kind of computer that has to be told when to spit out a response. 

Once sandwiches have been reduced to crumbs and mustard-stained napkins, Sam plants his hands on the table. "One of my coworkers is in this jazz trio, and they've got a gig tonight. Any takers? I can guarantee the sexiest sax you ever heard in real life."

"I think we're okay," Steve says. Bucky gratefully swallows down a knot of anxiety in his throat. "Dark and smoky isn't really our scene."

"Yeah?" Sam looks over at Bucky and arches his eyebrows. "Do you agree, Bucky?"

It's pointed, and Bucky can see Steve's cheeks starting to go pink out of the corner of his eye. "It's fine." He looks from Steve back to Sam. "Probably couldn't handle a sax that hot."

Satisfied, Sam nods and shrugs. "Your loss."

On the walk back, Steve is tense. Bucky can tell by the way he holds his shoulders, and they don't even make it halfway to the apartment before he turns to Bucky while they're waiting at a crosswalk and says, "I'm sorry."

Bucky clenches his teeth to steady himself. "What for? Haven't done anything, far as I know."

"I shouldn't have spoken for you." Steve makes a face and reaches up to rub awkwardly at the back of his neck. It's a gesture that he's maintained since the 40s, though the bulge of his bicep is certainly new. "I try to remember not to. But I messed up. So, I'm sorry."

It's a clear reminder that Steve thinks the worst possible thing Bucky could do is not have an opinion on something. Or not to be forced to voice an opinion.

"It's fine." Bucky shoves his hands deeper into his pockets. "Like I said. You didn't do anything."

Steve doesn't seem satisfied, but he's quiet the rest of the way home. Once they're safely inside the apartment, Bucky hopes that it's over and done with.

He's not so lucky. Steve is always full of questions for him, but he's even worse than usual tonight, obviously taking extra precautions not to assume what Bucky needs. He asks Bucky if he wants first shower, what he wants for dinner, if he wants to watch something after dinner, what he wants to watch.

Even when they get to the bedroom, the questions don't stop. "Can I kiss you?" is easy. But it's followed by, "is this okay" and "do you like this" and "what do you want?" It's exhausting.

"What do you want?" Steve mumbles against the meat of his shoulder. He has his head tucked to the right side of Bucky's neck, the fully flesh side, and his lips are burning hot on Bucky's skin. Bucky pushes his hand up into Steve's hair at the nape of his neck, holding him in place. He hopes that's enough of an answer, but Steve groans softly. His teeth scrape gently at Bucky's skin. "Tell me, Buck."

"I don't know," Bucky says. His voice is low and gravelly, torn between arousal and annoyance. 

Steve kisses him again, and Bucky thinks that it's settled, that Steve has at last accepted Bucky's uncertainty, but then his hand on Bucky's thigh squeezes. "You gotta tell me what you want, baby."

"I want you to quit _asking._ " Bucky shoves at Steve's chest. The instant he puts any pressure towards it, Steve is gone, and Bucky knows he should be thankful, grateful that Steve respects him, but it just makes him more miserable. His emotions are hot and confused in his gut, and he's so fucking sick of all of it. "What if I want you to tell me what I want? What if I asked you to just tell me what to do so I can stop fucking thinking for a few minutes?"

He knows he had a temper once, just like Steve. Maybe it's a good sign that it's coming back, but right now he can't bring himself to look at Steve. Steve, who's so careful with him and wants so badly for him to be in control of his own life.

The silence is deadly. All Bucky can hear is his own breathing, and now that the burst of frustration is cooling in his chest, he feels stupid. He swallows, but then Steve is reaching carefully over to rest a big, warm hand on his shoulder. "Okay."

Bucky stares back at him. "Okay?"

"I can...I can do that." Steve nods, and Bucky can see the determination being written across his face. He's never seen Steve back down from a challenge, not with a face like that. "i might need some time to, uh, figure it out? But I'll do it, Bucky. Anything you want, you know I'll do it for you."

He doesn't have any words to react to this. "Oh."

"I just want you to be happy, Buck." Steve gives him a little crooked smile. "That's all."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohhh hey. So, a hiatus for Nanowrimo turned into a much longer one with the holidays, work, other writing deadlines and some good old fashioned writer's block. But the bitch is back, and I hope I won't be away for so long again! Thanks for still hanging around, if you are in fact still hanging around, and I hope you enjoy it.

The next morning, it feels like he might have dreamt it. He knows it can't be so, because none of his dreams end like that, with Steve curled warm and protective around him, but it doesn't seem real either. Steve isn't in bed when he wakes up. It's not unusual, but this morning it makes his guts twist. He forces himself to get up, pulling on a shirt before padding out into the living room. Steve is in the kitchen, whistling while he cooks. He looks over his shoulder and smiles.

Bucky spends the day braced for a reprimand. He usually was punished immediately after an infraction, nose rubbed in it like a disobedient dog. But there were times that he knew he had failed and the anticipation of it, the endless waiting, hurt more than whatever discipline HYDRA had dreamed up for him. 

But if a punishment is coming, Steve is doing a good job of keeping it under wraps. He makes pancakes for breakfast with sliced bananas on top and tops off Bucky's coffee without asking if he'd like another cup.

Bucky eats his pancakes and sips his coffee, trying to quash his pointless suspicions. Steve reads the newspaper, sometimes making soft thoughtful sounds, but other than that, the only sound in the apartment is the rustling of the pages, the faint hum of the refrigerator. It's a comfortable kind of semi-silence, and he does his best to give himself over to it. He's almost convinced himself that it was a dream after all.

"We're going to the museum today," Steve says. Bucky looks up at him, surprised, and Steve is looking back with a calm, measured gaze that feels incredibly heavy. He smiles a little. "There's a new photography exhibit. And we can get lunch at that Mexican place you like afterward."

It's not an order or a command. It's a statement, and the knot in Bucky's stomach starts to loosen. He takes another bite of his pancakes, sliding it through the syrup on his plate until it's properly drenched. "I'll get dressed after breakfast."

"Great." Steve takes a sip of coffee, and then he's looking back at his paper. "Wear the blue shirt. It looks good on you."

They're mild, as far as directions go. Nothing that would give him pause even on his worst days, so he's a little startled by how much of an effect they have on him. His head feels quiet for once, going into their closet and pulling out the blue shirt. _Steve told me to wear it,_ he thinks as he does up each button one by one, metal and flesh fingers working in perfect symphony. _Seeing me in it will make him happy._

Indeed, when he leaves the room, full dressed and with his hair brushed back into a low ponytail, Steve hooks a friendly arm around his shoulders, tugging him in for a kiss on the cheek. "You look nice." It's such a simple thing, but the kiss feels like a medal, a mark of achievement.

"Thanks," Bucky says, and he feels comfortable enough inside his head to smirk over at Steve. "One of us ought to."

Steve's laugh is honest and surprised, and it makes the warmth in Bucky's chest spread that little bit further.

It's a sunny day, and they hold hands on the subway. Bucky knows he holds a little too tight, but Steve never flinches or pull his hand away. They get off a stop early, because Steve insists that it's too nice of a day to spend cooped up underground. There are birds fluttering in the trees, not just pigeons but little sparrows too, and Bucky takes his time staring up at them. He's got a solid grip on Steve's hand, and he knows Steve won't lead him astray.

The museum is crowded, but it doesn't bother Bucky as much as it might have on another day. It feels like nothing can go wrong, with Steve guiding him through the ticket line, then over the stone floors and into the galleries. They've been to this museum before, but Steve still ends up slowing down and getting distracted on their way to the special exhibit. It's never the same pieces that catch Steve's eye, and Bucky loves standing by his side while Steve stares at a painting or a sculpture, squinting at it with thoughtful eyes. He usually asks Bucky for his opinion on the art, but today he's blissfully silent. Once he's done admiring the painting, he gives Bucky's hand a gentle tug, and they're off again.

Steve's always been the artist of the two of them, but Bucky appreciates it too. He can't imagine how anyone could live with Steve's impassioned art history rants without at least developing some fondness. Back during the war, Steve always said they were gonna go back to Paris when it was all over, see the Louvre. They never had the chance, of course, but it's still there as far he knows. Maybe they'll still make it there.

The special exhibition is even more crowded than the rest, and Bucky's struck again by the silence of the future. He can't imagine standing in a room in their old neighborhood with this many people and feeling the same kind of stillness. Sometimes it unsettles him, but with Steve holding his hand, he finds it calming. They aren't alone, but they're uninterrupted, safe in a private bubble.

"God," Steve says, under his breath. Bucky's not sure if he's being quiet out of respect for the other guests or out of awe. Probably some combination of the two. "It's really something, isn't it?"

Art that reduces Steve to that level of descriptive ability really is _something_. The exhibit is a study of the development of color photography. Bucky doesn't remember seeing photos in color back then, but they had them. As far back as 1907, according to one of the plaques. It's surreal to see scenes that he remembers in color, like they ought to be. Everything from that time is black and white all over, and it doesn't fit with his admittedly hazy memories. 

But now he's staring at photos of guys in the park and a hot dog cart, just as vibrant as they are in his mind's eye. He gets distracted staring at a picture of two women standing outside a store. He doesn't know for how long, but it's long enough that Steve comes up quietly next to him, closing a hand around his elbow. He looks up at Steve, and he can see it written on his face. The questions. Are you okay? Do you want to go? What can I do for you? _Don't ask,_ Bucky silently pleads. It's been such a good day so far. _Please don't ask._

He can practically see Steve swallow them down. "I'm ready for lunch," he says instead.

Bucky smiles. "Okay."

*

By the time they're settling into bed that night, Bucky feels warm all the way through. Even this, just this is enough. He doesn't want to wait for anything more. But then Steve's hand closes around his hip, heavy and firm. The meaning is unmistakable.

"If you tell me to stop, I will," Steve says. It's barely more than a whisper, and his voice is low and rough.

Bucky's breath catches and his heartbeat speeds up. He's somewhere between anxiety and anticipation, and he says nothing.

Steve waits for a moment, waiting no doubt for Bucky to say it. Part of him wants to, just out of the sick desire to see what would happen. He knows without a doubt that Steve would stop, but would he be angry about it? He'd never want to let the anger show, of course, but Bucky is good at searching out underlying emotions, the quiet pressure of disappointment in the air. It's the precursor to a lot of painful things. Part of him wants to push his boundaries, just to know where they lie.

He stays silent. 

Steve guides him onto his back. It wasn't what Bucky was expecting, but he shifts obediently. He's wearing a pair of black briefs and nothing else, and he tries to pose a little, look appealing. Steve ignores his posturing and reaches for Bucky's wrist. He takes Bucky's human arm and carefully moves it so it's stretched above Bucky's head, then repeats with the metal arm.

"I want you to hold onto the headboard," Steve says. "And hold very still."

Bucky opens his hands and closes them around the smooth wood. He blinks up at Steve, waiting for his next order.

"Good." Steve's voice is low but warm, and it sends a pleasant shiver up Bucky's spine. Steve's fingers hook into the waistband of his briefs, and Bucky doesn't need to be told to lift his hips. Steve takes care of the rest, tossing them out of the bed once they're off. He's still wearing sweatpants, and Bucky can see the outline of his cock through them. He's not fully hard yet, but he's getting interested.

Bucky is hard. He's not quite sure when it happened, but his dick is definitely flushed and full, arcing up over his belly. Steve runs his big hands over Bucky's thighs, making him tremble. 

"Remember, I want you to hold still." Steve is shifting now, lowering himself between Bucky's thighs. "I know you can do that for me." Bucky is starting to get nervous, unsure of what Steve intends to do that he thinks complying with one simple directive will be so difficult. But his concerns evaporate as soon as Steve closes his mouth around Bucky's cock. 

His hands clench instinctively. He wants to reach down and touch Steve, but he's been told to be still. He keeps a tight grip on the headboard, though he's careful not to squeeze too hard and splinter the wood. Focusing on that balance helps to distract him from the slow, easy movement of Steve's mouth over his cock. He doesn't understand why Steve wants this, of all things, when he could tell Bucky to do anything. But they agreed that it's not his place to decide.

Bucky doesn't have to decide, which means he doesn't have to worry. He already knows what he needs to do. Steve wants him to hold the headboard, be still, and get his dick sucked. He doesn't have to know why. All that matters is that Steve told him, and he can do as Steve says. He can be good.

Steve has such a talented mouth. He's always sucked dick just how Bucky likes, probably because he learned from Bucky. Learned with his pretty pink lips stretched wide around Bucky's cock, and it's a heady rush to be feeling it again. Steve's hand is so much bigger than it used to be, wrapped around his cock, but his mouth feels just the same.

It gets harder to stay still, the longer that Steve sucks him, but an order is an order. It's a softball one at that, and Bucky isn't about to disappoint Steve by failing. He always used to have to struggle to keep his hips still back then, when it seemed like Steve could so easily choke. But Steve is stronger now, and he's eager too. He's taking Bucky in practically all the way, sucking hard, getting real dirty with his tongue. He's hot all over, heat prickling under his skin, and he flexes his fingers around the headboard.

Steve pulls off just enough to smile up at him, though he leaves his hand tight around the base of Bucky's cock. "You can move your hips if you need to, but keep your hands where they are." And he goes back down again.

Bucky gives a minute twitch of his hips, just to see. Steve just hums encouragingly around him. It appears to be an honest amendment of his orders, not a trick to catch him in disobedience. He starts to move, rocking his hips up slowly to meet Steve's mouth. It feels like the tension in his thighs starts to unwind a little, now that he's actively participating. He groans, because Steve never told him to stay quiet, and he's rewarded by one of Steve's thick fingers stroking the sensitive skin behind his balls.

It's when Steve goes all the way back, his fingertip ghosting over Bucky's opening, that he comes. He comes without warning, with a choked off sound that startles even him, and he feels the headboard crack under his metal fingers as he tenses.

He keeps that hand clenched into a fist, even as his heart pounds. He doesn't dare more, especially not now. Steve pulls off and wipes the back of his hand over his mouth, then grins crookedly up at Bucky.

"You can let go now."

"I broke it," Bucky says. His voice feels raspier than it's been in weeks, and he swallows hard, trying to clear his throat. "I'm sorry."

Steve shifts, leaning over him to inspect the bed. Bucky braces himself for the invective, the punishment that he'd only just begun to believe wasn't coming. If nothing else, at least he always had his self control, his iron will. He's lost that, breaking Steve's bed as though the arm was still a fresh wound, his shoulder still oozing from the incisions.

"Oops," Steve says. Bucky blinks up at him, but Steve just sits back on his haunches with a rueful smile. "Next time we'll have to try proper restraints, I guess. I didn't have anything, so I thought we could just make do. That's what I get for going in unprepared, right?"

"Yeah." Bucky frowns, and his eyes drop to Steve's lap. His cock is obvious in his sweatpants, thick and hard.

Steve notices where he's looking, of course. "I'm fine. I'm...it's okay."

"No," Bucky says, and he thinks it startles both of them. He's supposed to be letting Steve make the choices, but this...this one he feels like he can make himself. "I want to."

He jerks Steve off quickly and efficiently, like always. Usually Steve cups his hand around Bucky's to guide him, slow him down a bit, but tonight he seems desperate. It's hard to imagine that he enjoyed sucking Bucky's dick so much, but the evidence is right here in the palm of his hand. And in a minute, it's all over his wrist and thigh too.

"Sorry." Steve exhales hard, and he always has tissues by the side of his bed, of course. He wipes Bucky clean and tosses the crumpled tissue towards the trash can. He's not even looking, but Bucky recognizes the soft thud of it hitting the mark.

They curl up in the dark, just like before, with Steve's hand snug on Bucky's hip. They're silent, just as they were before. Until, just like before, Steve's voice comes, a whisper in the darkness.

"Was that right?" He still sounds rough, though for a different reason. "Was that what you wanted?"

Bucky reaches down and curls his hand over Steve's, squeezing tight.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on [tumblr](http://villainsexuale.tumblr.com) for updates & general good times! Thanks for reading & commenting, I appreciate your feedback <3


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